


One of the King's Own

by osprey_archer



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lerant's family history bars him from the Tortallan military - until Lord Raoul offers him a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of the King's Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fluffybun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffybun/gifts).



Lerant’s bruised ribs protested as he lowered himself to sit on his narrow inn bed. The bed ropes slumped under his weight. Any night now, those ropes were going to snap. He really ought to just go home to Eldorne before that happened. There was no reason to stay in Corus now. 

Lerant wrung out his handkerchief and pressed the cool wet cloth to his black eye. The inn’s amenities didn’t run to mirrors, but if the cook’s gasp when Lerant asked for the basin of cool water was any guide, he looked a sight. A black eye, a bloody nose - he touched a finger under his lip. It had stopped bleeding now, at least, but blood spattered all down the front of his best tunic. Ruined. 

Not that he needed the fancy tunic anymore, now that the army had refused to take him even as a man-at-arms. He’d offered to fight alongside commoners, and they still wouldn’t take him. 

And it wasn’t just the higher-ups who didn’t want an Eldorne. The feeling extended right down the line, as the three men-at-arms who roughed Lerant up in the alley after his final application to the army showed. 

And how could Lerant blame them? Doubtless their families suffered from the after-effects when conspiracy forced the king to use the Dominion Jewel at his coronation. 

Lerant had been a fool to come to Corus. He should have given up all hope of fighting for Tortall six years ago, when the palace denied his application to train as a page. But he had believed that if he showed how truly he wanted to serve Tortall, then maybe the king would see that the Eldornes could still serve him loyally, after all, and he would not only give Lerant a place in his service but perhaps lighten the tax burden crushing Eldorne, too. 

Lerant closed his eyes and lay gingerly back on the bed. Even through his tunic and shirt, he could feel the straw in the pallet poking at him. At least this inn didn’t have bedbugs, like the first place he stayed when he came to Corus. 

Once the Eldornes had owned their own house in Corus, but that had been confiscated after Aunt Delia’s treachery, of course. Why leave the Eldornes a place to plot treason under the very nose of their king? 

Not that any of the Eldornes had plotted treason, aside from Aunt Delia. But one bad apple was enough to spoil the whole batch of cider. 

Probably the Eldornes should count themselves lucky that the king hadn’t confiscated their lands entire and handed them over to one of those deserving merchant families he was forever ennobling. 

But probably the Mindelans and their ilk didn’t want to live in the Hill Country, and who could blame them? Lerant didn’t want to live there either: one of the reasons why he had spent the last three weeks tromping around Corus having doors slammed in his face. 

Lerant sat up with a sigh. He dipped his handkerchief into the bowl of water again and dabbed at his bleeding knuckles. Then he wiped the handkerchief gently over his face. The cloth came away streaked with the rust of drying blood. Probably he ought to take off his bloody tunic, too, but just the thought of getting it over his head made his ribs ache. 

Someone knocked at the door. 

“Go away,” Lerant said. 

“But there’s a visitor for you!” the landlady’s little daughter Fia piped. “Sir,” she added, remembering. 

Treacherous hope rose in Lerant’s heart. Maybe someone had decided to follow up on one of his applications after all? 

Or maybe someone had decided to teach that upstart Eldorne a lesson. Again. 

Lerant opened the door. “Who is the visitor?” he asked Fia.

Fia blinked at the sight of his face. “What happened?” she asked, standing up on tiptoe and stretching her arm up to touch the bruise. 

Lerant stepped back sharply. “I got kicked in the face by a spidren,” he said. “Who’s my visitor?” 

Fia dropped back to the balls of her feet, distracted. “A giant,” she said, her gray-blue eyes widening. “With curly black hair and a big red face, and he gave me a twist of barley sugar.” She pulled the twist of barley sugar out of her pocket and stared down at it, as if it were a jewel beyond price, then hastily hid it away again. Still staring down at her pocket, she added, “He’s waiting you in the best parlor. Sir.” 

From her description, Lerant had a guess who the man might be; and when he had descended the stairs to the parlor, his heart sunk into his boots when he saw that he had guessed rightly. In the hard-backed settee by the fireplace, drinking a cup of tea that looked absurdly small in his big hand, sat Lord Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak, Knight Commander of the King’s Own, and the king’s own boon companion as well. 

It could not be a good thing that he had sought out Lerant of Eldorne, sprout of the traitorous tree of Eldorne.

“My lord,” said Lerant. Lord Raoul put aside the tiny teacup and stood up, and Mithras, he was _huge_.

“Lerant of Eldorne?” Lord Raoul said, and Lerant sketched a bow that he meant to be respectful but suspected looked ironic. It was hard to be properly polite and respectful to a man whom the king had doubtless sent to kick him out Corus. 

“At your service, my lord,” Lerant said, straightening. Lord Raoul was looking at him, his brows beetled together. Annoyed at Lerant already, clearly. 

Then Lord Raoul spoke. “Are you all right?”

Not annoyed. Lerant was not sure what Lord Raoul felt, and it unnerved him. “I’m fine,” Lerant said. Polite and respectful, he reminded himself. “My lord.” 

“What happened?” 

Lerant might have been barred from knight training, but he knew enough to make the correct answer to _that_. “I fell down, my lord.” 

Lord Raoul’s eyes rested on him. “Must have been quite a fall,” he said. 

“Three flights of stairs,” Lerant said. “If you think I look bad, you should see the bannisters.”

It was a poor joke, but Lord Raoul laughed obligingly. “Sit down,” Lord Raoul invited. “Have some tea. The scones are excellent.”

Lerant sat, ribs twinging. He took a cup of tea in one hand and a scone in the other, more because he did not know what to do with his hands than because he intended to drink or eat anything. Lord Raoul’s gaze caught on Lerant’s battered knuckles, and his face assumed again the same beetle-browed expression of earlier. Lerant resisted the urge to hide his hands. 

“I’ve heard you’ve been knocking at the doors of every military office in Corus, looking for a position,” Lord Raoul said. 

Lerant’s hand tightened on the scone. “Yes,” he said. _Polite and respectful_ , he reminded himself. But his irritation got the better of him, and he snapped, “Did you come here to rub it in?” 

“I came to offer you a place in the King’s Own,” Lord Raoul said evenly. 

The scone crumbled in Lerant’s grip. He sat very still for a long time, trying to make the words make sense. But he couldn’t quite grasp them, so finally he just echoed, “You’ve come to offer me a place in the king’s own.” He started to laugh, and had to drop the last crumbs of scone onto his saucer so he could cover his mouth. “I’m sorry, my lord. I’m not laughing at you. I’m grateful for the offer, I assure you. It’s just…” 

He wasn’t quite sure Lord Raoul wasn’t having a laugh at _him_. But even Lerant wasn’t quite tactless enough to say that.

“It’s just that no one else wants an Eldorne in their forces,” Lerant said. “And it seems to me - begging your pardon, my lord - that the king would be most displeased to name an Eldorne as one of the King’s Own. That’s why I didn’t even apply.”

“Jon and I are old friends, and it gives me some leeway that other commanders don’t have.” Lord Raoul smiled wryly. “Well, enough leeway to tell him over lunch that he was being a fool to turn down someone who wanted to serve Tortall so much that he would wear out his knuckles knocking on every door in Corus. Jon said, ‘Take him into the Own if you admire his spirit that much, then’; and so I’m here to offer your a place.” 

“And the king is happy about this?” Lerant said, incredulous. 

“It would be going too far to say he’s _happy_ ,” Lord Raoul said. “But he’ll be glad to have you under the eyes of someone he trusts, at least.”

That made sense. It was the first part of the conversation that made sense, and Lerant relaxed very slightly into his chair. “I would be happy to be a member of the King’s Own,” he said. But it still seemed so ridiculous that he couldn’t help adding, “If you really mean it.”

“I do,” said Lord Raoul. “I’m asking you to be our standard-bearer.”

“Standard-bearer,” said Lerant. He took a sip of tea. It didn’t help the swelling of his throat. Standard bearer. A great honor. 

“It’s a dangerous position,” Lord Raoul warned him. “The standard bearer becomes a target in combat.” 

“I know,” Lerant said. “I will try - I will strive to be worthy of the trust you place in me, my lord.” He saw himself in his mind’s eye: Lerant of Eldorne, in Conté blue and silver, riding at the front of a column of the King’s Own - 

“The rest of the Own,” Lerant said, his hand moving to his black eye, his smarting nose. “They’ll be angry to see an Eldorne elevated. I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”

“Fie on them if they do,” Lord Raoul said. “Show them the same persistence you’ve shown the last three weeks in Corus, and the ones who are worth a bootlace will learn to respect you. It won’t be easy for you - ”

“I don’t care about that,” Lerant said. “I mean - sorry for interrupting, sir - ”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re very informal in the Own.” Lord Raoul stood, extending one of his large hands. “So it’s settled, then? You’ll be one of us?” 

Lerant stood, too swiftly, because his ribs twinged and he had to stop for a moment awkwardly half-risen from his chair. But he straightened, and took Lord Raoul’s hand, and shook it, and said, “Thank you, my lord.” 

He would have said more, but the words all seemed too small to convey his gratitude. 

Lord Raoul put a hand lightly on Lerant’s shoulder, steering him out of the small parlor. “Well, come along, then,” Lord Raoul said. “Let’s gather your things and get you back to camp so the healer see to your wounds.” 

“They’re nothing - ” Lerant said.

“Nothing compared to what you did to the bannisters, doubtless,” Lord Raoul said. “But a member of the Own needs to keep in fighting trim at all times. Do you think you could take on a spidren with those ribs?” 

A prickly answer leaped to Lerant’s tongue, but he held it back. “No,” he admitted, and then added, “Probably not a spider, either.” 

Lord Raoul laughed. He hefted Lerant’s trunk onto his shoulder as if it were nothing, and Lerant followed him to the King’s Own.


End file.
